Al Dente
by Constantinus
Summary: It's not easy being a diva, especially when the pasta is over-cooked. Takes place during Tintin and the Picaros.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own or profit from The Adventures of Tintin, but art is for everyone, so I would like to think that I can lay some claim to Tintin. **

**A/N: I would like to apologize, in advance, for any mistakes I may have made in my spelling, grammar, and idiomatic usage of the Italian and Portuguese languages. In my head, I picture San Theodoros as a close neighbor of Brazil, thus the natives speak an unusual (and completely fictional) dialect of Spanish and Portuguese. **

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Chapter 1:

Signora Bianca Castafiore, the Milanese Nightingale, the darling of Europe, and the queen of the operatic stage, sighed dramatically and sank a little lower into the inadequately padded seat of a stiff and uncomfortable chair in the _capo della polizia's _office. The events of the morning had quite overtaken her, traumatic as they were, and she was quite put out. In fact, put out did not even begin to convey the calamity of the situation in which she found herself. Overcome with mortification suggested itself to her mind as an expression much better suited to the occasion. Yes, overcome with mortification. She sighed again, this time with a note of pleasant soprano wistfulness, and buffed her well-manicured nails against the vivid pink fabric of her ever-so-stylish morning suit.

Fame is a giddy and fickle mistress, she reflected philosophically. One day the rabid crowds scream for encores and shower the stage with roses, the next they throw tomatoes and call for one's head. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Bianca Castafiore, for her part, had never been on the receiving end of actual tomato-throwing, though she had heard many stories in her youth, as a member of the chorus at La Scala. Not for a moment did she imagine that anyone would ever throw tomatoes at her; no indeed, for when she sang, the Milanese Nightingale was unmatched for lyrical beauty, articulate phrasing, and sheer vocal power combined with a magnetic stage presence. Yes, magnetic was the word. But, though it differed significantly from tomato-throwing, being arrested for conspiracy could hardly be considered an improvement in circumstances. Unless, of course, one was aware of the advantageous effects of notoriety. A delicate flower-bud attempting to bloom and overshadowed by a hedge of thorns, that was what she was, and that was an image powerful enough to conjure sympathy in even the most jaded of music critics.

Signora Castafiore sank a little deeper still into her chair and crossed her legs primly, a small smile playing about her full lips as she hummed a few measures from one of Signor Verdi's arias. This little embarrassment in San Theodoros would be resolved quickly, of that she had no doubt. She had friends, dear Captain Padlock and his charming companions Tintin and the little Professor not least among them. They would rescue her from this dreadful place, and then on, on to the adoring crowds showering her with undying love and effusive praise.

The Milanese Nightingale would sing again. Oh, yes indeed, she would.

OOOOO

She felt a little less confident when she saw her cell, and even less so when she was introduced to the prison's resident chef. The man was short, thin, and bad-tempered, no doubt on account of his extremely underwhelming mustachio and dreadful haircut. Signora Castafiore could forgive him for the mustachio and haircut, but in her experience, thinness was never a good sign in a chef. There were no thin chefs in Italy; it was unfashionable, and therefore not done. She looked the man up and down and sniffed regally, perfectly shaped eyebrows raised. He scowled and made a curt bow.

"What will _senhora _be wanting for dinner?" he asked, his accent a rather curdled mixture of Portuguese, Spanish, and pidgin English.

Signora Castafiore raised her eyebrows a little higher. Her English was adequate, but she much preferred French or her native Italian. Even German would have been preferable. As far as she was concerned, Spanish and Portuguese were unsuitable languages for people of taste, culture, and artistic education. The odious little man stared at her, apron carelessly hung around his neck, awaiting an answer.

At long last, she deigned to reply. "If you please, I would like _rigatoni con la pagliata_," she trilled, rolling the _r _and enunciating the _t_ as if sprinkling seasoning on a dish. "And mind the salt, little man: too much salt is the ruin of a good sauce."

The underwhelming mustachio twitched, its owner pursing his lips before responding. "We don't make that dish."

The signora sighed, placing hands on her ample hips. "Well, _tortelloni alla zucca _then," she said, sparkling consonants complementing perfectly mellow vowels.

The chef reached up and scratched his head as if thinking hurt, tilting his uniform cap forward as he did so. "We'll make spaghetti, if you like, _senhora_," he countered, his words sticking to each other like over-cooked rotini.

The signora stuck out her lower lip somewhat petulantly. Spaghetti? How typical. "_Benissimo_, if you will," she said, "but mind the salt."

The skinny little chef shrugged his shoulders, huffing pointedly as he turned and headed back toward the kitchen.

Signora Castafiore returned to her cell, expression not quite as cheerful as usual. The Milanese Nightingale would sing again, but first she had to eat, and a future of endless and unvarying spaghetti was a bland prospect indeed.

OOOOO

The spaghetti, when it came, was dreadful: a sticky, oily, clump of noodles stuck together on a plate, like a poorly executed trill in a delicate Rossini _cantabile_. And it was overwhelmingly salty. Signora Castafiore took one sniff and turned up her nose, convinced she had never been served anything so horribly unappetizing, not even in America, where the pasta was tasteless and had become a regular victim of culinary abuse. She hummed in displeasure, brow furrowed and lips pressed tightly together.

The skinny chef, having hand-delivered the disgusting plate, was standing solicitously alert on the other side of the table, clearly expecting something. His gaze flicked up and down from the plate to her face a few times, as if to encourage her. Realizing that he would remain in that position until she tasted the dish, she picked up her fork, dipping it into the coagulated mound and spinning it expertly until she had one or two noodles wrapped around the utensil. Lifting it slowly to her mouth, she took a bite, forcing herself to chew and swallow, then wiped her lips on her napkin, careful to avoid smearing her lipstick. Then she sat up straight, laying the fork down, and coolly returned the chef's gaze.

"You like, _senhora_?" he asked, gesturing vaguely at the plate.

"No, I don't like," she replied tartly. "It is over-cooked, and I cannot eat it. And furthermore, pasta is not pasta without a proper sauce."

The chef's eyes narrowed, and he stuck his head out of the door to yell something in Spanish down the corridor. Directing his attention back to the table, he lifted the plate of noodles and regarded them closely with a critical eye. "We'll try again, _senhora_. You'll see."

With that, he turned and shuffled out of the small dining room, plate held before him.

Signora Castafiore sat in her chair a few moments longer, not worrying. Most definitely not worrying; worrying was for the poor unfortunates who hadn't the natural charm and grace to win the adoration of thousands. No, the Milanese Nightingale never worried. But she did, from time to time, admit to a certain small measure of justifiable anxiety. And after one supremely disappointing dish of pasta, with more undoubtedly to come, she felt unquestionably that her current situation was just such a time.

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**A/N: Before you send a nasty PM condemning me as a racist, consider: Signora Castafiore is an opera singer most comfortable with the **_**bel canto **_**and French Grand repertoire. As such, she would be fluent in Italian and French, adequate in English and German, and completely unfamiliar with Spanish and Portugese. It isn't right for her to look down her nose at Hispanics, but it is a logical inference to make. If you still feel uncomfortable with the situation as I have written it, you are free to disagree with me and stop reading at this point.**

**Otherwise, please review. Constructive criticism helps me improve my writing and motivates me to write more.**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

A few days later, the darling of Europe felt herself once again ascendent, amazed by the transformative power of late morning sunshine sparkling on the barbed wire of the prison encampment. She laughed and trilled and hummed by turns, her smooth skin glowing with restored good spirits. So delighted did she feel that as she sat down for lunch, she was inclined to be magnanimous and forgive the chef for the egregious error of over-cooking the spaghetti. She was even tempted to offer him an autograph. Until lunch arrived.

It was still spaghetti and still sticky, but this time, it had received the terrible insult of being covered with an oozy, dark brown substance the chef had the gall to identify as _sauce_. And it was even saltier than before. After the obligatory bite Signora Castafiore stood quickly, hands on hips, sunny disposition abandoned in the face of culinary affront.

"No, no, no," she said emphatically. "I cannot eat it, it is an insult to my palette."

The chef merely raised an eyebrow and twitched his mustachio as he lifted the plate off the table. "Eh, we try again," he said, once more retreating to the confines of his kitchen.

Signora Castafiore sat back down and began to chew her bottom lip. _Madre de dio_, but this was a fine kettle of noodles. She tapped her long fingernails on the table as she thought. One dish of over-cooked pasta: unacceptable, even unforgivable. Two dishes of over-cooked pasta: definitely a problem. And if the situation continued... She shuddered at the thought; best not to dwell on such things. The Milanese Nightingale had been in far more dire circumstances in her life, a few performances of Wagner* among them. But none, unfortunately, had filled her with the same dread she felt as she sat at the bare little table in the cramped prison dining room.

Something would have to be done.

OOOOO

Three days later, she prepared herself for whatever might come, be it an overbearing Wagnerian tenor or - equally loathesome - over-cooked pasta. Entering the dining room, she remained standing, ready to stand her ground or suffer mortal peril in the attempt.

The conflict, when it came, was short and sharp. The chef arrived, not with the usual plate, but with a whole pot of pasta, all of it sticky, over-cooked, and much too salty. There was no sauce, and for that at least, Signora Castafiore was grateful. She poked her fork into the pot somewhat savagely, withdrawing a long, thin strand of spaghetti. It dangled menacingly from the end of the utensil as the pride of La Scala slowly drew it into her mouth, chewing purposefully and swallowing with the greatest precision, the well-toned muscles in her throat working perfectly. Formalities completed, she laid the fork down, wiped her lips with the napkin, then lifted the pot and upended it over the chef's head. The offensive contents tumbled out in a sticky clump, most of it sticking to his cap and ears, a few bedraggled noodles dangling from his mustachio like forlorn bits of sea-weed on a ship's hull. The pride of La Scala returned the pot to its owner's hands, then stepped back and raised herself to her full, and considerable, height. Composing herself and filling her lungs to their fullest, she began.

"Young man," she trilled, "I have dined in the houses of nobles and royalty and enjoyed the finest delicacies of all the great cultures of the world. I have tasted the richest wines of the East, the most delicate pastries of France and Switzerland, the astonishing fruits and vegetables of the tropics and the Orient, and the marvelous courtesy of chefs all over the world." Signora Castafiore paused for breath, warming to her subject as if to one of Signor Bellini's arias. "Do you know with whom you are dealing, _mio piccolo_? I am the Milanese Nightingale, the pride of La Scala, the darling of Europe, _diva straordinaria_. I am Bianca Castafiore, and I will tolerate no disrespect to my person."

Her final statement was delivered with a stunning crescendo, such as would shatter glass and bring adoring audiences to their feet in torrents of applause and gushing platitudes. To the little mulatto chef, it meant very little: he merely shrugged his shoulders, turned, and shuffled out of the door, spaghetti still dangling from his head.

"And next time, don't over-cook my pasta!" _il diva _shouted after his retreating figure, her whole body quivering with righteous indignation and her face thunderous.

OOOOO

And so the conflict continued, week after week, pot after sticky pot of over-cooked pasta. Confrontations in the dining room became a testing-ground for the Signora's patience. Pasta days fell into an uncomfortable rhythm, with her taste of whatever disturbing offering the chef brought sparking arguments, appeals to the man's finer feelings, and outbursts of extreme disapprobation. More often than not, the chef left the dining room wearing the pasta. Despite the Signora's increasing temper, the little man's attitude never varied: a scowl, a shrug, and a bland "We try again, _senhora_," was the extent of his response. And so it continued.

Until the day, just before her trial, when Signora Castafiore realized what lay at the root of the problem.

The trial itself came and went in a blur of flash photography and clamoring San Theodorian lawyers, politicians, police, and press members. In the midst of the tumult, Signora Castafiore remained her cool, stylish, magnetic self, her hair and make-up perfect, her stunning smile always in place, her voice as sweet and lyrical as it had always been. Having overwhelmed the jury with her obvious innocence and remarkable presence, she returned to her cell and prepared for the performance of a lifetime.

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***Nota Bene: the Wagner referenced here is Richard Wagner the composer, not Igor Wagner the accompanist.**

**Please review, it makes me feel loved. **


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3:

The day after the trial dawned bright and clear, the morning clean and innocent, blind to the future that awaited. It was a pasta day. Signora Castafiore sat bolt upright on the hard bed in her cell, her mouth set grimly in a firm line. She had friends and admirers the world over, many of them wealthy and influential, all of them devoted to her in one way or another. Or so she had thought. They had given her no support throughout her enprisonment, no protests to General Tapioca on her behalf, no dramatic rescue attempts, not even one romantic letter of sympathy. They had deserted her, all of them. But she had her own resources: she had worked her way up from lowly chorus-member to internationally renowned prima donna. She had always triumphed, and she would triumph again.

If the skinny little mulatto chef couldn't be made to see reason, he would be persuaded in some way, of that she was sure.

She leaned back against the cell wall and steepled her fingers together, one eyebrow raised in an expression of grim determination.

OOOOO

The pasta came at lunch-time. It was different, fettucine instead of spaghetti, and there was more of it than usual. The little chef set the pot down on the table in front of her and stepped back. There was palpable tension in the air, thick enough to cut, as Signora Castafiore dipped her fork into the pot one more time. She twirled the utensil, two noodles wrapped tightly about the tines, then lifted it to her mouth. She kept her face blank as she chewed and swallowed, laid the fork down with frosty precision and once again wiped her lips clean. Then she stood and began to speak, very softly at first, her voice rising as she spoke.

"When I was a little girl growing up in my beloved Milan," she began, her tone light, "my _nonna _taught me to make pasta. We made every kind of pasta together, from simple spaghetti and meatballs to rich gnocchi and cheese-filled tortelloni and everything in between. It wasn't just cooking: for her, it was art, a skill to be practiced diligently and cultivated assiduously, and something to be cherished and shared with her family. To my _nonna_, pasta was life, passion and heartbreak and joy blended together in an extraordinary dish. To serve it badly was a sin, requiring confession and penance, but to cook it badly was an insult, a crime against man's stomach as well as his finer feelings, and as unforgivable as squeaking in one of Signor Donizetti's arias."

She paused and regarded the chef regally, two bright spots of color appearing in her cheeks as she continued.

"So in Italy, when we speak of pasta, we say it is 'al dente'; and when we say 'al dente,' we mean neither crunchy and under-done nor sticky and over-cooked. We mean firm, toothsome, and delightful, an aria for the tongue, a symphony on the palette. And the sauce...the sauce is to be made with tomatoes, cream, butter, not pimentos and sugar cane. _Cielo_, why can't you get it right?"

The little chef listened to the recitation quietly, the mustachio twitching from time to time. When the Milanese Nightingale had finished her oration on the highest note in her considerable range, he crossed his arms over his chest, took a deep breath, and made his answer.

"_Senhora_, this is San Theodoros, not Milan. Here, in this prison, we make rice, meat, fruits and vegetables to feed prisoners. While _senhora _has been here, we have made pasta because _senhora _has asked for pasta. If _senhora _is unhappy, she is free to make her own pasta, in her cell. Or, if she is still unhappy, she may eat rice, like the rest of the prisoners." He finished, and having made his point, stuck his officious little nose into the air.

Quick as a flash, the pasta pot was in the Signora's hands and its contents once again tumbled down around the chef's ears. "I will not tolerate such abuse," she screeched. "Have you no respect for a poor, weak woman, who after being denied her freedom for so long is now also denied the comfort of a well-prepared meal? I will not hear of it: I shall complain to your General Tapioca until I am afforded some sympathy, I shall make a formal request to have you deported. You will regret this, you horrible little man: I will take this to the highest authorities until you never hear the end of it, and I'm telling you for the last time: I want my pasta cooked properly! 'Al dente,' as we say at home in Italy!"

The little chef quailed under her ferocious tirade and practically ran out of the dining room, pasta pot in his hands. Signora Castafiore, now almost in hysterics, made to follow him, but when she reached the door, something in the corridor caught her eye.

"Ah, Madonna!" she cried, her voice shrill. "Captain Hemlock!"

And so it was: Captain Haddock and dear Tintin and that adorable ball of white fluff that traveled with them. There were other men with them, very pompous and official in military uniforms, but she had eyes only for the captain.

"Come, _caro mio_," she cried ecstatically, running toward him. "Come to my arms!"

"No!" he gasped, his face a picture of horror.

She ignored the expression and wrapped her arms around his neck, holding tightly in her excitement. "I knew you'd come to rescue me from this dreadful place," she sighed, long pent-up tears at last escaping from her lustrous eyes. The captain wriggled, struggling in vain to escape her embrace.

Behind them, one of the pompous gentlemen in fancy uniforms coughed politely. "Ahem...here is _Senhor _Igor Wagner, _senhora_...and your maid," he said, his tone of voice oh-so-fawning and servile.

Signora Castafiore cried out in joy again. "Ah, my dear Irma, how I have missed you."

The plump little maid was wringing her hands and clutching her handkerchief in a manner that was most distressing to behold. They embraced, both weeping, their hearts unfettered and happiness rekindled to meet again.

At last the signora stood before the whole little crowd, her arms out-stretched as if she would hold each one of them in her embrace. "Ah, what joy to be all together again," she exulted. "I simply must sing!"

Behind her, the captain shook his head, panicking, his frantic whispers of "No! No!" joining those of the pompous gentlemen in uniform.

But sing she did, her voice clear, light, lyrical, soaring with the strains of Monsieur Gounod's finest aria. _"Ah, je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir..."_

OOOOO

The next morning, the sun shone like it always had, the birds sang, and mist rose in wispy tendrils from the depths of the jungle. Signora Bianca Castafiore, the Milanese Nightingale, the darling of Europe, the queen of the operatic stage, and the terror of thin chefs everywhere, sighed dramatically and sank a little lower into the padded plush of a soft and comfortable seat on the plane. The events of the past few weeks had left an indelible imprint on her mind and she was quite overcome with emotion.

Her friends, dear Tintin and beloved Captain Stopclock, had rescued her, and for that they had her undying gratitude. But before their dramatic entrance into the prison - much like something Herr Beethoven would have written, she thought - she had been on her own, relying on her charm and natural talent to win the day. And she had triumphed, her star had ascended to once again hang suspended from the pinnacle of the heavens.

The Milanese Nightingale had sung again. She always had, and she always would.

_Fine_

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**A/N: I hope you enjoyed this little piece. Signora Bianca Castafiore remains, to my mind, a charming and sophisticated, if somewhat egotistical, character in the Adventures of Tintin universe. **

**Pink-Pencil-Girl303: Thank you for your sympathetic and kind reviews. I am not an opera singer, though I would dearly like to be, and I can readily empathize with Signora Castafiore's view of the world and what things in her life are of the highest value.**

**Speculatrix and Tinkerbell 2511: Thank you so much for reviewing. I am so pleased that you've enjoyed it!**


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